


Of Worries and Windows

by the_original_starfruit



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Anxiety, Boys In Love, Cuddling, Dissociation, Emotional Repression, First Kiss, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Spooning, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Unintentional Bed-Sharing, anyway have fun, basically take every cliche you can think of and yup! there it is!, the rest is fluff, these kiddos went through a Lot okay, this is soppy as all hell, very light angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 12:18:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14164689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_original_starfruit/pseuds/the_original_starfruit
Summary: “Cut the crap, Richie,” Eddie whispers curtly, and Richie shuts up, his eyes widening behind the thick lenses of his glasses. "Why are you climbing through my window?"Richie is silent for a second. He looks down at the floor, using his finger to jam his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and Eddie can’t really tell but thinks his cheeks might be a little bit red. “I, uh…” He starts, and Eddie leans forward in spite of himself. The room is dark and feels full, somehow, the air Richie exhales thick with tension or a secret.Or: Richie keeps climbing through Eddie's window at night, and Eddie can't stop himself from asking why.





	Of Worries and Windows

**Author's Note:**

> hey lovely humans !! i wanted to write something short and sweet after my big angsty disaster fic of last week and this popped into my head - probably cause i recently became aware that richie coming through eddie's window is a thing™ in this fandom and i wanted to try it out
> 
> <3

Eddie’s window is open this particular night.

He can smell the fresh air, puffing in little breezes as rhythmic as the breaths of a sleeping animal, and it’s fitting because the night is dozy – warm, even for the tail end of summer, and calm with the orchestral cheeping of crickets and the smell of wet grass. He sighs, the sheets cool and comforting against his skin. The familiar dread rises in the back of his throat.

            It’s late, he knows, the clock on his bedside table glowing like a pair of eyes in the dark, but he doesn’t look at the time – he squeezes his own eyes shut and tries to ignore the flutter in his stomach, the fear pressing against the roof of his mouth.

            _Plink._

He stiffens, feeling something like an icy finger trail up his spine. He knows he’s been jumpy lately, startling at small noises and flinching away from sudden contact, and that far less observant people than his mother have noticed the dark bags under his eyes. There’s something in his chest that rises up at night to strangle him, the old asthmatic wheeze coming back to play but worse, oh god so much worse when he remembers the dank drip of the sewers in the dark –

            _It’s dead you killed It for fuck’s sake there’s nothing there it’s probably a mouse –_

The sound comes again: a light, sharp clack, like something hitting glass, and then the clatter on the drainpipe, the thin roll down the sloped roof.

            Eddie lies rigid as a poker in his bed – he squeezes his eyes shut tighter, but still sees a rotting, noseless face, yellow eyes blazing with the fire of the dead.

            _Close the window, just get up and close it, don’t be a fucking pussy if you can just get the window closed you’ll be safe –_

_Plink._

Eddie lurches up out of bed and is across the room before he can talk himself out of it, barging through the black shadows that leer up at him from the floor, and as he grabs the wooden window frame, feeling sweat slide greasily down the small of his back, he sees a shadow detach and move below him in the grass –

            _“Eds?”_

His mouth drops open, and he feels his knees go soggy with relief that quickly turns to a slap of annoyance.

            “Richie?” He hisses as a grin flashes up at him from the dark, “What the fuck? It’s, like, one in the morning –“

            “I had to come and see you, Eds,” Richie tries to whisper, and Eddie winces – Richie Tozier’s definition of ‘whisper’ is close to a normal person’s speaking volume. Eddie shushes him frantically as he drops his handful of pebbles and begins to shimmy up the drainpipe, nearly putting his foot through the living room window.

            “What? Wh – what planet are you living on where people just say, ‘oh, you know, everyone’s asleep, what a great idea it would be to visit my friend! Let’s throw enough shit at his window to give him a fucking heart attack’ –“

            “You left your comic book at my house,” Richie says, crouching right outside the open window so his big brown eyes are level with Eddie’s, his expression soft as melted chocolate and twice as sticky. Eddie, unimpressed, wrenches the window open further, leaning both his elbows on the sill. Richie brandishes the comic book, Wonder Woman fluttering up at them from between newly dog-eared pages, and Eddie takes it.

            “So, what? I’m just supposed to let you in now?” He whispers fiercely, trying to ignore the puppy eyes Richie is vomiting up at him in the dark.

            “Unless you want me to be downtown at one in the AM, when any psycho could grab me, murder me, and chop me up into little pieces,” Richie says cheerfully, and without an answer begins to shove his head and shoulders through, pushing Eddie out of the way.

            Eddie feels laughter rise against his will as Richie bends himself into a boy-pretzel, trying to maneuver through the window with his leg under his left shoulder.

            “This is the shittiest break-in I’ve ever seen,” He whispers as Richie gets stuck, winces, squirms through, trips, and curses in quick succession, flailing his ridiculous lanky arms on his way down and ending in a pile on the floor.

            “Only the shittiest for you, Eddie-my-love,” Richie says, flopping into a short bow, and Eddie crosses his arms, tossing the comic book onto his desk. Richie notices, and places a hand over his heart in mock horror. “Such little care taken when I risked my life for you! Such –“

            “Cut the crap, Richie,” Eddie whispers curtly, and Richie shuts up, his eyes widening behind the thick lenses of his glasses. “Wonder Woman really couldn’t wait until tomorrow? Why the fuck are you climbing through my window?”

            Richie is silent for a second. He looks down at the floor, using his finger to jam his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and Eddie can’t really tell but thinks his cheeks might be a little bit red.

            “I, uh…” He starts, and Eddie leans forward in spite of himself. The room is dark and feels _full,_ somehow, the air Richie exhales thick with tension or a secret. Then he blurts, “I just really needed a little midnight coitus with your mom,” and the moment breaks like some rare and precious glass drop-kicked off a cliff.

            “That’s it, you’ve hit the limit, get the fuck out,” Eddie tries to whisper, he really does, but his voice has risen, though in anger or reluctant laughter he can’t tell. Richie dodges his shove, then rolls backwards over one shoulder and flops his full length on the floor. His heels thunk when he throws them down. Eddie grabs him by the ankle and starts trying to pull him towards the window.

            “Pip-pip, cheerio, please, gov, not the window!” Richie is saying in one of his terrible British voices, and Eddie can feel himself smiling, _damn_ it, a little laughter leaking out the corner of his mouth.

And then there’s a voice from downstairs.

_“Eddie-bear?”_

They both freeze like frightened animals. Eddie meets Richie’s eyes for a split second, sees malevolent, unbridled _delight_ and knows he’s logging away this new nickname for future torture. He takes a moment to curse Richie Tozier even as he hears the telltale squall of his mother mounting the sagging staircase.

            _“Eddie, are you awake?”_

Richie gestures at the window, and Eddie shakes his head, frantic. _Hide,_ he mouths, and Richie mouths back _where_ as he looks helplessly around the spotless room. Eddie hears the slow advancing creaks, his mother’s labored breathing as she comes up the twelve stairs, and with his heart in his throat he shoves Richie backwards onto his bed.

            _“Stay still,”_ Eddie hisses, and Richie nods, swallowing hard at the sound of Sonia Kaspbrak’s heavy step immediately down the hall.

            He pushes Richie in towards the wall, whipping the covers over him and trying to make it look believably messy, and the blankets have barely settled over them both before the door opens.

            “Eddie, are you having nightmares?” She whispers, and in the very pregnant silence that follows Eddie feels Richie wriggle slightly, a bony knee knocking the back of his thigh. He grits his teeth, trying to remind himself that strangling Richie would probably give him away, and then he feels the blood drain out of his face as Sonia steps into his room.

            _Oh fuck, oh please god no,_ he thinks incoherently, because not only is she going to murder him in about three seconds when she finds out her son has been sneaking _boys_ into his bed – but she is going to kiss him in front of Richie.

            Richie has grown very still, and Eddie tries desperately not to squeeze his eyes shut, to make his breathing slow and smooth as Sonia leans over and pecks his cheek, her lips smacking wetly on his face.

            She stands there for a few torturous eons, eyes on the bed, and Eddie is stock-still, brittle as an icicle, nails digging into the sweat-slicked palm of his hand and Richie a warm, miraculously quiet lump behind him.

            Finally, she turns and goes, leaving his door open a generous crack, and Eddie has to stop Richie from springing up as she descends down the stairs. The garage light flicks on, flooding the driveway with brightness, and Eddie groans in consternation when he doesn’t hear her bedroom door close –

            “Well, Eds, as much as I’d love to sneak down and join your mom, I guess I’ll be on my way,” Richie whisper-shouts, and Eddie is shaking his head, grabbing him by the arm as he tries to sneak out from under the covers.

            “You can’t. She has the light on, she’ll be watching for burglars for at least another hour – she does this whenever she hears noise upstairs, so good fucking going –“

            Richie just smiles lazily, not protesting in the slightest, and Eddie trails off, blinking with the realization that maybe this was what he wanted all along.

            “Sure,” He yawns, stretching out his obnoxiously long self, “any excuse to keep me in your bed, Eddie Spaghetti. Now if you’ll pardon me, I need my beauty sleep.”

            “Here,” Eddie mutters, shoving a pillow between them, “take your fucking shoes off in my bed, and don’t you _dare_ touch me with your feet.”

            “Bossy in the bedroom,” Richie says, grinning, “that’s kinda sexy.” He kicks his sneakers off the foot of the bed and away, twisting up the blankets and probably grinding a fuck-ton of dirt into the clean sheets.

            Eddie bites his tongue, turns his back, and does his best to fall asleep with someone literally breathing down his neck.

“Hey Eds?” He hears a few minutes later, a sigh, low and gentle with almost-sleep, and he drowsily resents the fact that he can’t ever ignore Richie Tozier.

            “What, Richie?” 

The air has regained its soft quality – the charcoal darkness is anonymous and safe, and there’s something hesitant in Richie’s voice. His heart speeds up in anticipation. He holds his breath as he waits for Richie to respond, feeling that they are trembling on the verge of something new.

            “How many live lizards d’you think I could eat before I threw up?” Richie asks, and Eddie closes his eyes, warring between the fresh impulse to choke him and a strange disappointment deflating in his chest.

“Go the fuck to sleep,” He grumbles, and Richie laughs quietly to himself for a second before lapsing back into merciful silence.

A few hours later, Eddie wakes up to find the pillow gone and a whole bunch of extremities wrapped around him – it feels like he’s been engulfed by a particularly bony octopus.

He lies very still, his sleep-muddled brain trying to figure out where all the limbs came from – why there’s a long leg thrown over his hip, and why there are two more arms, one curled under his neck and one flopped loosely around his waist – and then it hits him and he throws his elbow backwards into Richie’s stomach and Richie snorts violently, his knife-sharp ankle kicking into Eddie’s leg. Eddie bites his lip hard to keep from shrieking and does his best to roll over. Richie mumbles muzzily, his arms tightening.

“Whazzit?” He slurs, “Eds?” and Eddie swallows because Richie’s voice is never this quiet, the room is chilly because the fucking window is still open and Richie is _warm,_ damn it – even though he’s breathing damply on the back of Eddie’s head, even though his stupid bones are poking everywhere, even though he’s been snoring in choked little sputters – Eddie doesn’t really want him to back off.

“Nothing,” Eddie whispers, “Go back to sleep.”

Richie hums, just a contented little wordless sound from the back of his throat, and Eddie takes a shaky breath. Richie readjusts so that Eddie’s head rests more comfortably on his arm, and then tugs him closer, so that his entire back is pressed against Richie’s front. Eddie thinks about protesting, but it’s actually nice – like cuddling up to a five-foot-seven-inch hot water bottle.

            Eddie is asleep before he realizes his eyes are closed.

He wakes up to the open window streaming early-morning sun, one side of the bed cold and rumpled, and the realization that, for the first time in five weeks, he has slept through the night.

            The next night: he’s sitting up in bed, his gooseneck lamp casting a small circle of light on Wonder Woman punching out of dog-eared pages, when Richie pokes his head up past the sill.

            “Hey, Eds,” Richie says, like it’s normal to be crouching on your friend’s roof at midnight waiting to crawl through their window, and as Eddie crosses the room to wrench the frame up further he thinks that maybe, in this case, it is.

            The next night: he’s at his desk, trying to get at least a little progress in on their summer homework, but for some reason he can’t focus until he hears the scuffle of dirty sneakers on the drainpipe, the grit of an eager footstep on the roof.

            The next night: Eddie comes from brushing his teeth and Richie is in his bed already. He stands quietly in the doorway for a second because Richie’s mouth is shut for once, his hair curling like a big un-brushed dishmop all over the pillow, and he has a look Eddie had forgotten because he hasn’t seen it since they were six or seven – soft, smiling without hiding behind a joke.

            Then he notices Eddie back. He raises his arms and wiggles his eyebrows in what he probably thinks is a seductive way.

            “Come to beddie, Eddie Spaghetti,” He croons, and Eddie is done staring – he just glares and remembers why letting Richie in was a bad idea in the first place.

            The next night: Eddie leaves the window as far open as it can go, then gets in bed and turns out the lights because, for the first time in six weeks, he feels drowsy instead of afraid. And when he hears scuffles and footsteps, a soft curse from someone making their way with questionable stealth to the bed, Eddie doesn’t feel suffocated by his own lungs – he just lifts the edge of the blankets and lets Richie slip in beside him.

            It becomes their routine, and eventually Eddie stops being bothered by the fact that they don’t talk about it. It’s just them, EddieandRichie, and if their normal daytime friendship of jostling and playing now includes sleeping in the same place, warm and pliant and entangled – well, Eddie’s just fine with that, as long as he constantly reminds himself not to think about it too hard.

            It’s only after three weeks of this that everything comes rushing back, all of Eddie’s misgivings and half-acknowledged doubts and the familiar, scorching-cold panic, because Richie isn’t normal when he comes through the window.

            “Hi!” Eddie whispers when he hears Richie tumble through, “Y’know, I was downtown today – close the window, dipshit, it’s freezing – and I saw Bill getting candy at the pharmacy and he said we should have a sleepover this weekend – Richie?”

            Eddie looks around because Richie hasn’t interrupted him with a single word. He is standing in the middle of the room in his flannel pajama pants and a holey old T-shirt that looks like it hasn’t been washed all month, and he is staring with unfocused eyes, his gaze on a spot slightly above Eddie’s right shoulder. There’s a leaf stuck in his hair.

            Eddie feels his eyebrows wrinkle.

“Hey, Richie? Earth to Trashmouth?” He tries, and Richie blinks and twitches his way back into focus, a brittle and completely unconvincing smile on his face. He speaks a bit too loudly.

            “Sorry, Eds, what was th –“

Eddie shushes him harshly, eyes wide, and instead of continuing at greater volume he falls silent, the false smile dropping from his face like melty snow sliding off the hood of a car.

            “Are you okay?” Eddie asks, and Richie nods, slowly. His half-closed eyes look thick as syrup.

“Fine, Eds,” He mumbles, again too loud, “Ready for a long night’s sleep is all.”

Eddie considers pressing the issue, asking what’s wrong, but his brain automatically snarks that Richie will just make some joke about his dick or his mom. Then he looks more closely at Richie, whose shoulders are slumping so vacantly, and he suddenly thinks _but what if he doesn’t?_

            He is more scared by the second option, so he just propels Richie to the edge of the bed.

            They lie down together, and Richie is like a breathing corpse – he flops on his side, boneless but scarily stiff, his arms straight down past his ribs. Eddie waits for him to scoot closer, to curl around his back like a limpet like he usually does the second he thinks Eddie is sleeping, but after two uncomfortable minutes he hasn’t moved an inch. Eddie opens his mouth, then snaps it shut when his brain thankfully catches up – what in the fuck was he about to ask? _Hey, Richie, what’s wrong – get sick of being the big spoon?_

Slowly, his cheeks burning with what feels like a fever, Eddie turns to face him. He puts one arm carefully over Richie’s waist, the other crunched awkwardly between their chests. Richie is cold to the touch. He relaxes slightly at last, letting out an exhale that sounds painful – a drowning boy finally giving up his air.

            Eddie ignores the voices in his head that are shrilling _justfriends don’t do this_ and _what’s wrong with him_ and _why do you think you can fix it,_ and they fall asleep without saying anything, uneasy in the dark.

            Eddie wakes up to a bright crack of pain across his cheek, and it takes him a disoriented second to recognize Richie’s gross shirt in front of his eyes, and the stab of the bony arm that just elbowed him in the face. He scowls, hissing out a rebuke, but then his fury evaporates when he hears a muffled intake of breath – it’s _wet,_ and sounds remarkably like a sob.

            _“Richie?”_ Eddie whispers, and feels him stiffen up, trying to flinch away but only succeeding in whacking his elbow against the wall. There’s a quiet swear, a sniff, and he reaches out as best he can, pulling one of Richie’s hands away from his face.

            “What is it?” Eddie breathes, and in the few seconds it takes Richie to gather a reply Eddie again expects an automatic quip – _he’s gonna spit up some joke because that’s what he does, ha-ha, yuck it up, c’mon don’t be a pussybabybitch, we’re boys eddie and boys don’t cry, eddieandrichie don’t do this, justfriends don’t do feelings –_

            “It’s the fuckin’ _clown,_ Eds,” Richie chokes out, and a whole colony of shivering gooseflesh rashes out on Eddie’s arms and neck and back. For a second he stutters with his own fear, stutters like Bill, red-faced and trying so hard to get the comfort out.

            “W-w-we killed It, Richie, It’s fucking – It’s dead, dead gone, we - we –“

“I _know,”_ Richie interrupts, and he sounds furious, now, hissing out in a real whisper at last, “I know we fucking killed It, and I _know_ I shouldn’t be afraid – there’s no reason to be such a goddamn pussy now that it’s gone – but I keep having these, these fucking _dreams,_ and –“

            His voice breaks and peters out, and Eddie can sort-of see him in the dark, his eyes without his glasses still huge, shiny with tears.

            “Me too,” Eddie whispers, and Richie’s head shoots up, “I – I didn’t sleep until you started sleeping with m – until we started sleeping toge – fuck _,_ you _know_ what I mean, Richie. I – “ He pauses, a thought striking him like a battering ram. “Wait – is _that_ why you started coming? To the window, I mean?”

            Richie drops his eyes, then nods twice. His voice is steadier, now, but still so weirdly quiet that it makes Eddie apprehensive.

            “I – yeah. I guess I – it’s weird, Eds, I kept having these dreams and I would wake up in the middle of the night, and it was – it was like I was back there, even when I woke up. In the Neibolt house, or the sewers. And even when the dream was done, it felt like I was still _in_ the dream – like, I wouldn’t be able to feel my hands attached to me, or it felt like my fucking head was floating away – or - or –“ He breaks off, and Eddie can tell he’s edging back to tears. “Then I had another one tonight before I came here, and I – I just – needed some way to – to feel real again after.” There is a self-conscious pause.

            Eddie swallows the relief, the gratitude welling up in his throat. He knows what Richie is trying to tell him about, even though he knows he could never find the right words either – the way his room looked skewed and flimsy after every nightmare, all his belongings cheap props in some fucked-up parody play, the shadows threatening to cut the fragile string that tethered his drifting mind to his body.

            His brain is going a million miles an hour, but Eddie stays very still. He can feel Richie quaking against him, and he takes a deep, shaky breath, admonishing himself for being such a fucking coward.

            _Richie needs you – don’t be a pussy, just do it, you already want to –_

He reaches out, slowly, and touches Richie’s side, trailing up his ribs. _Don’t think about it too much._ Richie looks up so fast his neck cricks, but when Eddie moves his fingers away he shakes his head silently, gently, and catches them in his own.

            “Does this feel real?” Eddie whispers, his heart thundering under his ribs, and he hears Richie’s breath hitch as he nods – for once, he seems to be at a loss for words.

            Eddie detangles their fingers and touches Richie’s shoulder, brushing up his neck. His skin is soft, surprisingly, and Eddie realizes he’s enjoying it – his mind is shrieking _justfriends justfriends justfriends_ and he shoves it away – and Richie swallows hard.

            “Does this feel real?” Eddie repeats, and his hand is moving up to Richie’s face, the freckles smooth and perfect on his cheek.

            “Y’know what would feel realer, Eds?” Richie breathes, and his eyes flicker down to Eddie’s mouth. He _licks his lips_ and Eddie is on the throes of an asthma attack right then and there. They are almost nose to nose. Eddie doesn’t move his hand away because his brain has gone from _justfriends_ to _richierichierichie_ to a roaring blank silence, and to his own surprise, Eddie is the one who leans in.

            It is short and soft in the dark, melting with the same brevity and sweetness as a chocolate bar. Eddie had thought about kissing girls before, had vaguely wondered when that particular rite-of-passage would come, but he had never _felt_ anything attached to these faceless, imaginary girls, and so he didn’t expect his first kiss to feel like much at all.

But Richie kisses like he talks: too fast, too random, a little too much spit, and Eddie knows why people say _fireworks_ now, because he has a whole box of cherry bombs rocketing around in his stomach. He thinks he might be dying, because he’s never felt _this much_ in this many parts of him at once.

They break apart, and almost immediately Richie goes in again, but he misses by a long shot and ends up slobbering overenthusiastically on the corner of Eddie’s nose. Eddie recoils, pretending to gag, and Richie shrinks away with unusual seriousness – his face that Eddie can half-see in the dark looks crestfallen, even as he tries pathetically hard to keep his voice light.

“Sorry, Eds,” He says, “Thought you were, you know, into it, but if not –“

“No – no, Richie, I, uh –“ Eddie stumbles over his words, embarrassed, “Just, um, don’t put your – your tongue up my fucking nose. The – the rest was – well. Good,” He chokes out, and he knows he’s tomato-red because of how volcanically hot his face is. He can practically see Richie light up like a Christmas tree; his face is silly with happiness.

            “Good,” Richie echoes, then says it again, stronger, “Good. So we can, uh…do it again sometime?” And this time Eddie’s absolutely dying, imploding in on himself, because _jesus fucking christ._

“Yeah,” He chokes, and thankfully Richie doesn’t say anything else – he just wiggles a little and grabs Eddie in a hug, drawing him close, his smiling face tucked against the top of Eddie’s head.

“So, um, what if I told you I didn’t sleep well without you anymore?” Richie whispers, and Eddie thought his heart had recovered, but it quivers and bursts in his chest because Richie’s voice is hesitant, a little quiet, and that. Well. That was unexpectedly sweet.

“Well,” Eddie whispers back against Richie’s collarbone, curling his fingers into the front of his shirt, “I’d call you out on your bullshit, since I haven’t had a night away from you in three weeks.”

Richie laughs a little, and Eddie can almost feel the joy radiating off him like sunbeams.

“Should we test it? Go a night without me serenading my beautiful Eds from beneath his window?” He asks, and Eddie shakes his head. He stops smiling for a second to press a tiny kiss to the base of Richie’s throat.

“Fuck no,” He replies, and Richie laughs again, hugging him tight, tight, tight.

Eddie’s window stays open following that night.

**Author's Note:**

> yo please comment if you have an extra minute cause validation increases my chances of posting more by 1000%
> 
> EDIT: hey i just made a tumblr !! so if you want me to write something for you then feel free to drop in and leave a request and i'll post it here and on my blog !! <3 reddie-to-write.tumblr.com


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